


The Tanager's Blind

by Singular_Coyote



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Found Family, Headaches & Migraines, Injury Recovery, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singular_Coyote/pseuds/Singular_Coyote
Summary: After a mysterious man shows up at Nelson & Murdock offering a suspicious case concerning one Mr. Healy Matt finds himself a problem to solve: Wilson Fisk. Except, he doesn't quite know who that is. Determined to find out, Matt begins his own investigation to gather information, getting tangled up with the local gangs in the process. Despite the fact that he would much rather leave them alone. But, as it would appear, they have information he needs, information he's willing to put himself in danger for (which isn't much, but still!).Along his thieving for info he finds unlikely allies to help him in his quest to take down Wilson Fisk.





	1. With Spread Wings

The moon hung heavy in the sky, illuminating the streets down below in a soft gray befouled and dirtied by their contents. The shadows coasted around the edges of the alley, warping around the bricks, slowly flowing into the lamp lit space of a pothole-filled parking lot, void of cars, full of debris.

A small series of buildings surrounded the parking lot, all old and run down, most completely abandoned for reasons concerning the health of the public. The one Matt was headed towards having seen better days run as a dollar store. Without focusing, Matt could hear little murmurs through the thick concrete walls, the creaks of the hardwood under hefty boots.

Matt approached at a calm pace, dressed in black; he easily found a home in the shadows the moon didn’t touch. He ran a gloved hand along the bricks of one of the buildings he passed, biding his time.

_In through the mouth, out through the nose._

Matt flexed his hands and stood still. He knew who he was looking for, he knew they were here; yet, his nerves were a wreck. Perhaps, it was because he was getting involved in Mafia business, and that was real Fisk business, corrupt law force and all. And while his goal was to garner more information on Fisk, he didn’t intend to die via shootout because of a mistake.

Matt, however, was sure that the longer he stood in this empty parking lot the less time he had to execute his plan. Cracking his knuckles, Matt moved over to the entrance of the dollar store and found the corner (which was, in fact, covered in dust and other ungodly things) that connected it with another building. He steeled himself and sat down, right out of line sight from the door.

Matt also knew that there were windows above him, but they were so caked in dust and dirt that he doubted anyone could get a clear glimpse through it. However, his targets were probably too occupied to be gazing wistfully out the windows. They had important matters to discuss after all; matters Matt intended to look into.

He knew that the Russians, along with other gangs, were working with Fisk, making him stronger. Which allowed him to fund the Russian’s kidnappings and whatever else he had his grubby little hands in. Drugs, probably.

A pulse of anger flared through Matt at the thought. How could they destroy people’s lives? The fact that he gained so much power without anyone knowing him was baffling. And he was also using this power to hurt people. All Matt could see was Fisk sitting on a pile of cash, laughing at the poor. He couldn’t find a reason to favor this man.

Perhaps, the gangs felt the same way. If Matt could only shake Fisk’s hold, remove his source of money, his base, watch his power crumble because of it.

With determination, Matt focused his hearing and began his mission.

The murmur shifted into a soft conversation… that wasn’t in English or any other language Matt knew. Nevertheless, the tone conveyed urgency and purpose. He picked up two distinct male voices and one female one, interjecting every so often, as well as a slow, steady heartbeat. Matt couldn’t pick up any traces of anyone else.

So he began to wait, curled up in a dusty corner next to an abandoned parking lot, the night in full force. Matt waited for a few minutes, time passing as slowly as it pleased before he heard a car come to a stop, not too far away. A pair of feet hit the pavement, then another and another, the third one much softer. And then a secondary sound: the gentle tap of a cane.

Matt followed the sound to the other side of the building he was sitting against. The front door creaked with disuse as the trio pushed past, entering the same room as the Russians. All chatter from them ceased as the others began, firstly to themselves, then to their partners; Matt identified the language as Chinese.

“Madame Gao isn’t pleased with the fact that Fisk is telling her what to do; even more so with his minimal effort to help us.” The voice was male and weary.

A soft, yet stern voice spoke in Chinese.

“She also understands,” the tired voice began, “that you feel the same.”

“We do,” said a gruff voice. _Russian._

“Our resources have been stretched thin trying to keep with his demands,” said another. _Him too._

That small Chinese voice, “Madame Gao,” Matt believed, spoke again.

“She believes we can take this time of equal strife to help one another.”

The parties continued to speak as such; one of Gao’s people translating for her, the Russians replying with small affirmative statements.

Matt identified seven heartbeats, one of which was extremely old compared to all the others, but, nevertheless, just as strong. He believed this heart belonged to Gao; she’d need it to keep up with Fisk. Who, from the way they were talking, seemed to be laying heavy burdens all for the sake of his “better tomorrow.”

_What better tomorrow is headed by gangs? What is Fisk planning?_

Matt strained his knuckles between his fingers and groaned, the possibilities weighing down on him. If Fisk had the gangs and judicial influence Healy’s worry proved he could raze the city for the sake of his better tomorrow.

“Are you saying we stage coup?” One of the Russians asked, chuckling.

Matt sighed and cleared his head, refocusing on the conversation.

Madame Gao gave a small laugh and began to speak, hand gently carving through the air. “Man is a fool,” she said in English, gaining a small gasp from both her people and the Russians. “He does not see risk like we do; he continues down this path he will fail. He is lazy and easily distracted. He will kill us all if we do not act.” She gave a small huff and threaded a nail through her brow before setting her hands on her cane.

Matt pressed the side of his face against the brick, straining his hearing like a nosey child. The Russians were talking amongst themselves, words quick and cut. They turned to Gao, sentences stuck behind their teeth. A tense silence filled the air, echoing into the parking lot.

Gao stood there, hands firm on her cane. The Russians silent. Matt thought he might have to say something if no one else would.

Rubber on concrete; the click of a boot, a clearing of the throat followed by a humorless laugh.

“We know you are right,” a raw voice admitted.

“But what can we do?” The other interrupted. “Any change he will notice.”

“И? Это -”

“Нет, я не -”

“Что, Анатолий? _[What, Anatoly?]_ ” The gruff voice asked, voice pulled thin. “Чего вы боитесь? _[What are you scared of?]_ ”

“Неудача _[Failure]_ ,” he said dryly.

“Неудача, да? Невероятный! _[Failure, huh? Unbelievable!]_ ” One of the Russians grunted. “Tolya, listen to me. We will make this work, окей? Don’t worry.”

Gao laughed and clicked her cane against the hardwood, dust spreading and resettling.

“Scenes like this make me glad to be an only child. You two, always clashing, trying to step out of the other’s shadow,” she hummed. “But your brother’s concern is valid, Vladimir.”

“Yes,” Vladimir said, “but I know you have plan for all of this.”

Gao chuckled, straightening her posture: “You’re right, I do.”

Matt listened on as Madame Gao explained her plan in detail, from the scams and possible murder, venom dripping from her lips. She spoke of a beautiful woman Fisk had his eyes on. She stood tall and strong, stronger than him. He’d crumple beneath the wave of her hand; she would be their leverage if things went sideways.

But until, if that time arrived, they’d keep on as normal, slowly siphoning money from their deposits to him back to themselves. Apparently, Fisk had also angered his money man, Leland Owlsley, so he’d let it slide if they cut him in.

“From there we break away from his operation when we have crippled his funds,” Gao had said, smile audible. “How many soldiers can he buy with _scraps?_ ”

She had gone on, conveying a clear image of how and when they’d take and what they would do when Fisk found them out. Because there was no doubt he would find them out. Supposedly, the Russians had a small stash of weapons of mass destruction. The perfect tool to get Fisk to back off if he didn’t let them leave with the money willingly.

After they parted ways with Fisk they would keep their respective distance from him and watch him self-destruct. His goal was one that needed people and money to be executed. With a chunk of his base gone along with his money, he’d have no way to start over.

All seven talked amongst themselves with sharp, buzzing words after she finished laying out her plan. They had decided that flirting with danger seemed to be a plausible answer to their conundrum.

By the time they Gao had spread her word and they agreed to betray Fisk, Matt’s bones were aching, all stiff and wrong. He stretched his legs out in front of him and wiggled his toes in his boots. All he had to do now was wait and let his target walk outside.

On the other side of the door, Matt heard heavy, boot-clad steps heading toward the door. He tucked his legs in and shrunk back into the corner, out of the way of the door and the pale light from indoors.

Tall and straight-backed, a man walked with long strides deeper into the depths of the parking lot, someone close on his hip. A gravely, female voice spoke softly in Russian to the man as she grabbed his shirt sleeve, pulling him onwards.

Out on the other side of the building, the Chinese left and began the trek back to their car parked in the alley. He followed the clip of their shoes with his ears until they popped the doors and hopped in.

The wooden door close to Matt released its tension and creaked back into place.

Two voices flitted through the air of the shop in quick Russian, carrying opposing messages. Matt could only assume it was the two brothers. They seemed to talk forever, their cadence only broken by sighs and mumbling.

Eventually, one of them got tired of their bickering and cast open the door, hinges crying. He walked with purpose, yet his legs were still stiff in their posture despite their speed. He cursed under his breath and picked up a small jog, perhaps to catch up with his compatriots.

That left one man on the premise; Matt was pretty sure his name was Vladimir. He sat and listened a little longer to gain a scope on the situation. Matt knew the light inside the building was on; a single light bulb fixed in place by a hanging lamp.

Matt listened to Vladimir’s heartbeat, a quick, nervous flutter, and heard him card his hands through his hair. He tapped a foot against the hardwood and shook out his hands before putting them in his jacket pockets. A quick quip to himself passed his lips; the floor began to creak.

Matt brought himself to knees, hands placed beside them. He evened his breath and heard Vladimir walk out the door, the air filling the metal creaks, the sound of shoe rubber clicking on concrete. Matt held his breath in for a second, _in through the nose, out through the mouth_ , then lunged.

The Russian heard his feet hit the ground and dipped back out of the way. Matt’s arm careered forward, missing, before going to his side and pulling out the sticks. Matt swung up with his left, the tip striking Vladimir’s fingers.

He clutched his fingers to his chest, feeling the break. The two stared each other down, Vladimir slowly moving back and Matt forwards. A few seconds of nothing proved that Vladimir wouldn’t move until Matt did.

Matt smirked and re-steadied his stance. He could feel his opponent’s eyes boring into his skin.

Matt dipped down and flew in, right going up, the left not far behind. Vladimir side-stepped the first blow and grabbed Matt’s arm when the left came down. Vladimir reeled his arm back and struck Matt in the jaw. Matt heard the skin split. He skidded back, his head dipped down.

He heard the Russian move in closer to grab him and felt the swipe of his fingers through the threads of his shirt. Matt used his momentum and threw himself back, pulling away with a back roll.

Matt sprang up and Vladimir stepped back. He wrung his right arm back and hurled the stick, hearing it strike the back wall, then the back of Vladimir’s head.

He heard the clank on the wood of the concrete, his opponent’s blood hitting the ground. The Russian managed to stay on his feet, swaying. Matt dove for the stick with and roll and swiftly picked it up. The toe of a boot connected with his jaw as he went up, tossing him onto his back.

“Fuck…” Vladimir cursed, stumbling over to Matt, broken fingers caressing the wound.

Matt went to roll over and felt the boot buddy up with the small of his back, face smushing up against the lot from the force of the impact. He could feel the dirt on his skin. And then a weight sloppily dropped on top of him. Knees barred his arms’ movement, a strong hand found a comfortable place on the back of his neck.

“So, you give everyone you meet concussion or am I special?” Vladimir asked, leaning menacingly over the masked man. Matt laughed dryly, shifting underneath his opponent’s weight.

“What makes you think you’re special? Vladimir brought his hand down from his head and looked at the bloody, broken fingers. He flexed them in pain, watching the tendons move.

“You’ve not killed me yet,” Vladimir murmured. “Must mean something.”

Matt felt the gap on the back of his neck loosen, fingers splayed out in order to hold Vladimir’s weight.

“Yeah, it does,” Matt said, squirming. “But you won’t find out what if the blood loss gets the best of you.”

“Perhaps.”

Matt could hear Vladimir’s heart, the way it sped up to compensate for its body’s losses. He heard the blood trickle down the side of his head, down his neck, staining his shirt collar.

“What you want?” The man on the top asked, voice slurred.

“Your help,” Matt answered, his squirming long ceased. Vladimir would pass out eventually. The grip in Matt’s throat tightened and Vladimir barked out a laugh as best he could without falling over.

“Help? You hit before you speak,” Vladimir said. “Not a good way to ask for help.”

“I thought I could take you,” Matt said, gently feeling the ground with the tips of his shoes. “Talk on my terms.”

The majority of Vladimir’s weight was situated on Matt’s back, allowing a little give in his knees. Given his state, an off-centered tilt could make Vladimir dead weight.

“We… we can t-talk on my terms, yes?” Vladimir slurred. He swayed sharply to the right and caught himself on his broken hand.

Matt heard the soft crack radiate through Vladimir’s hand, the bones further separating, causing a drunk gasp to leave his lips.

Matt paused at the sound, so sharp in his ears; he didn’t realize he could break bones that easily. _Perhaps_ , he thought, _I should be gentler_. But, being face down in the dirt rearranged his priorities for the moment being.

Matt scrambled up to his knees and threw all of his weight to the right, pushing Vladimir onto his back. Vladimir bent his arm and absorbed the impact using his upper arm and shoulder, letting Matt force him down. He reached up and swiped, raking his nails across Matt’s face, drawing blood.

Matt recoiled and jabbed his knee into Vladimir’s stomach, causing him to sputter and cough. Vladimir laid his head back against the concrete and reached up, grabbing the side of his face, digging his thumbnail into Matt’s under eye.

Matt pushed his palm against Vladimir’s inner elbow, collapsing his arm, dragging the nails down the length of Matt’s cheek, leaving stark red lines of torn skin. Vladimir’s elbow hit the concrete; the sound sent a shiver up Matt’s spine.

Vladimir wrapped his other arm around Matt’s neck, bringing up his knee to strike him in the stomach. A sharp tremor whipped through Matt’s body, making his arms go weak, dropping him on top of Vladimir. Pressed chest to chest, Matt began to squirm, unable to accurately gauge his surroundings with this close proximity.

Vladimir kept his arm tight around Matt’s neck and lifted his head from the ground, sinking his teeth into Matt’s throat.

A startled, wet cough ripped from Matt’s throat. He moved his legs, knees warring with Vladimir’s until he was kneeling. Matt took his elbow and brought it down on Vladimir’s temple, the shock forcing his jaw slack.

Matt rose slightly and pulled his arm back, striking Vladimir in the face, cartilage in his nose splitting and shifting. Blood spurted out, spilling down his lips.

Matt felt the warmth of the blood and felt how much there was; gently pouring from the nose, mouth, and head. He felt the broken fingers of Vladimir’s right hand, all bent pass belief. He felt the bruises forming along his arm and the expanse of his broad face.

A sense of guilt rattled his bones.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

Matt reeled back and struck him again and again, fist cracking along his cheek. Vladimir’s eyelids fluttered lazily, his response to the injury moot. Matt grabbed Vladimir by the chin, the fingerpads of his gloves pressing indents into his bruised cheek, forcing him to look at him.

“Your terms, huh?” Matt sound between huffs, catching his breath. “That’s cute.”

Vladimir spat, blood drenching Matt’s face in collective hate and disgust. Matt turned and wiped the spit from his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“Cute? Fair.” Vladimir slurred, blinking sluggishly. “You’re no better.”

“Yeah,” Matt chuckled, “we’ll see about that.”

“да,” Vladimir agreed. “мы будем, uh, yeah, we’ll see about that.”

Matt watched his opponent’s eyes slowly close and his head loll to the side, blood still leaking at a threatening, constant pace. He removed his hand and stood, looking down at the unconscious Russian.

Matt sighed and shook his head; seeing what he had done up close stirred awake a feeling of uncertainty for what he was doing. And standing there, watching the running blood didn’t help either.

Was he really comparable to a known criminal? He laughed to himself. That’s impossible! The man in front of him was a killer. Well, a killer Matt had nearly beat the life out of, but a killer nevertheless. Matt had never, would never kill anyone. Not even someone like Vladimir.

Matt rolled up his mask and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Matt looked a Vladimir: a bloody, ragged mess, but a bloody ragged mess he needed answers from. At this point, it was obvious he couldn’t hold him in a pin and ask him kindly.

_In through the nose, out through the mouth._

This would take some work.


	2. With Open Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in abandoned buildings is only good if you have sufficient reasoning and are not in pain. Vladimir, unfortunately for him, has neither of these things.

His head was throbbing and he couldn’t keep his eyes open, burning with light-fueled fury. Tears brimmed his eyes and rolled down his face, washing away the dirt and blood in little streaks. He could taste the blood in his mouth, feel the pressure of the bandage wrapped around his head.

“You’re awake,” the masked man said, voice echoing.

The sound rattled in Vladimir’s ears, shaking his resolve. His body was weak and dotted with bruises and crusted blood.

A gloved hand reached out and caressed Vladimir’s cheek, lightly pressing into a bruise. It trailed upward and across his broken nose and the bruises under his eyes. Pain flashed through his body; his face was pale from blood loss, but his cheeks flourished with red at the touch.

Vladimir’s breath caught in his throat; he pulled his head away and opened his eyes. Splashes of purple and yellow colored his vision. He saw the man’s hand in front of him withdraw and come to rest at his side. He looked up and saw the mask that covered the top half of his face.

“Кто…”  Vladimir groaned, rolling his head to the side.

The man in the mask pulled back and walked over to a table and pulled out a chair, the legs softly dragging over the floor.

Vladimir shifted in his seat, feeling the binding on his wrists for the first time. His arms were bound over the back of the chair, ankles tied to the legs. He felt the little red lines forming with each movement, like a branding on his skin.

The man in the mask walked over and sat down in front of him. He crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back, the chair creaking at his weight.

Vladimir flexed his fingers. His right hand had been bandaged and splinted. He pressed his arms against the back of the chair, feeling the multiple large bruises and their placements.

“Is it any better?” The man in the mask asked.

“Что?” Vladimir asked, hiding his nervousness in his confusion and pain. His head was throbbing; his whole body ached. Each sound felt like a needle in the brain.

“Your hand, Vladimir.” He said. “Does it feel any better?”

“How do you kn-”

The man shook his head. “It’s not important.”

Vladimir moved his head and looked at the man in the mask all decked out in black and scoffed -  _ Who is this fool? Do I know him? - _ willing away the distress that coursed through his lagging mind.

Vladimir squirmed in his seat; he didn’t like not knowing things. But usually, he could figure most things out. This, however, was most puzzling. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He’d find out who this man was if he could keep consciousness.

The man’s skin was pale, but red scratch marks covered the bottom half of his face. The mark where Vladimir had bitten him glowed a bright red and was beginning to bruise, purple and blue flowering around the wound.

Vladimir smirked groggily, then flexed his fingers again. He frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. “You broke them,” he said. “You jumped me. Why you care?”

“Yeah, I did,” he agreed. “But I never meant for it to happen like this.”

Vladimir chuckled to himself, then winced. “You attack and do not expect fight?”

The man laughed and fiddled with his hands. “I didn’t expect you to hold your own for so long.” He ran his hand along the scratches on his face. “Especially after that head wound.” 

Vladimir groaned and let his head drop. “Still hurts.”

“I know.” The man smiled, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You’re not the only one, though.”

Vladimir laughed quietly, a small smile on his face. He leaned back, head resting on his shoulders, looking up at the ceiling. It was pocked with boxy ridges that turned gray in the shadows. Like trembling lightning bolts the colors blurred and vibrated.

He blinked; his eyes were free of tears but dry in a tired way. His body was cold and his feet had fallen asleep from poor circulation. A strong, kneading pressure rolled in his head, lulling him to sleep.  _ So much for staying awake. _

Vladimir looked at the man and saw the deep crease in his face, the colors bleeding in from the outside. Stark lines vibrated off objects and clouded his sight with purple. The man leaned forward and the world shifted around him.

Vladimir blinked and tried to clear his vision fruitlessly. His eyelids grew heavy.

The man was talking again, but all Vladimir could hear was the pulsing in his head. His vision started to fade. 

 

The next couple of hours passed in pieces, but all waking moments were filled with pain and breathless worry. He started violently and then drifted back off when the fear passed. After Vladimir dipped in and out of consciousness for the third time the man stopped trying to talk to him. 

When Vladimir woke up and was able to stay awake for more than a few minutes he found the room to be empty. The only evidence that the man in the mask had been there was the empty chair in front of his.

The rest of the room was sparsely decorated. There was no door in his direct line of sight. The floor was an ashen carpet with large rips and tears in it, showing off the dirty foam underneath. The walls in front of him were covered in a peeling yellow wallpaper. He wasn’t in the same building he and Anatoly had met Gao in.

Vladimir groaned, he could already hear his brother, berating him for being a fucking idiot. But, honestly, he’d be right to do so because Vladimir did feel like an idiot, tied to a chair in the middle of who knows where.

Vladimir flexed his fingers and felt up along the rope with his unsplinted hand. The knots were tied tight; he couldn’t stick his fingers through any of the loops.

He sighed and looked around once more, his vision slowly fixing itself with time. The throbbing in his head had weakened a little, but, nevertheless, it was still enough to be distracting. But there was no doubt he’d force himself to push through it like he had all the others, despite his brother’s pleas to take care of himself.

_ Sorry, Tolya. _

Vladimir continued his quest to find a way out of this room. He spotted a coffee table next to a sofa behind the chair in front of him. There was a dresser directly to the right of him; on the top were multiple objects covered with a thick layer of dust along with the rest of the furniture. He turned his head to get a closer look, but they were too far away.

He planted his feet on the ground and pushed off to the right. The chair creaked in protest, dragging its legs across the carpet. Vladimir hopped again, slowly inching towards the dresser.

The legs proceeded to creak and moan as they hobbled along. Vladimir was so close he could almost touch the dresser with his shoulder.

_ Just a little farther. _

The chair stilled and continued to creak… and creak… and creak. Bit by bit the nails wiggled loose until they popped out, letting Vladimir fall onto the floor with a thud.

The air left his lungs and he let out a pained wheeze. He rolled over and instantly regretted the decision, the bruises on his body now aggravated by the chair’s backboard, which was wedged between his arms and back.

He got his look at the other side of the room. A large oak armoire and a couple of bare bookshelves laid in front of him, also covered in dust.

Vladimir laid on his stomach and waited for his breathing to even out before he tried to move. He reveled in the feeling of carpet against his cheek; it made everything seem a little less broken for the moment being.

He couldn’t deny that his body was sore or that he was in the midst of a shitty situation, but a sense of calm filled him despite all that. Including the wariness the man in the mask instilled in him. There was something off-putting about him.

_ Why would he beat and kidnap me only to patch me up later?  _

Vladimir sighed and wished he had Anatoly’s mind if only for a minute.  _ He’d be able to figure out what’s going on.  _ But at the end of all things he didn’t; this was a problem he would get himself out of.

Vladimir pulled himself together and dragged himself up onto his knees. He stood up and tripped on the part of the chair his legs were still attached to. He stumbled forwards, his knees hitting the ground. A blast of pain echoed through his head at the sudden movement.

He sat and wiggled his fingers.  _ If I’m gonna get out of this I need to be smart about it. _ Though the stronger part of him was telling him to lie down let the pain subside.  _ I can’t risk fucking this up for us. _ Vladimir stilled and calmed his breathing, trying to ease the pain behind his eyes.

He strained and lifted his arms up, letting the backboard fall to the floor with a noticeable clatter. The sound sent shockwaves to his brain. 

As easy as he could, Vladimir stood up. He looked down and sat the leg and seat of the chair that was attached to him. He took his other foot and brought it down on the wood until it broke off, little splinters embedding themselves into the carpet.

He stepped away from the mess, careful not to trip and faceplant into it. Vladimir turned around and made his way over to the dresser. In the dust miasma laid a small soiled notebook, torn fabric, and a pair of broken scissors; a bright orange sign.

Vladimir chuckled to himself, grinning like a mad-man. Perhaps things would go his way for once.

He turned around and backed up against the dresser, raising his hands as best as he could. He began to fish for the scissors, hands getting soaked in the dust. Vladimir groaned and furrowed his brow, the feeling disgusting him even though he had stuck his hands in worst things.

_ I just want to get out of here. Get back to Anatoly. _

He grabbed one-half of the scissors with his undamaged hand and swiveled them between his fingers, pressing the blade against the rope. He wedged the handle between him and the dresser and moved, sliding the rope along the length of the blade until he felt the sharp pressure against his bandages.

Slowly, the rope slipped off his hands and fell to the ground next to the partial pair of scissors. Vladimir pulled forwards and brought his hands in front of him, rubbing at his sore wrists. He looked down at his broken fingers and sighed, letting his shoulders drop.

More than anything he was confused. But one thing he did know is when he found this man he’d get his answers.

Vladimir turned around and looked at the dresser once more. The notebook caught his eye, all torn and yellowed. He reached out and wiped the dust off the cover revealing a dark red color. Flipping through the pages he saw countless inked lines and thought this something for later, shoving the book into his pants pocket.

Charged with purpose, Vladimir headed towards the door and opened it. It led to a cramped hallway connected to a winding staircase. The railing was decaying and the floor creaked underneath his feet. He heard voices from down below.

“Wait, you killed a guy?” Someone exclaimed.

“No, I didn’t,” replied the man in the mask. Vladimir recognized the voice. “When I said I needed help moving a body I meant a live one.”

Vladimir’s shoulders tensed and his eyes went wide, his whole plan to walk out of the building derailing. He backed away from the door and began looking around the room for an escape route

“Great! Fantastic!” Said the other one. “I can’t believe this is how I’m spending my lunch break.”

“It’s better than spending the time holed up in the office,” the man offered.

“No, it isn’t. Matty, this is criminal shit, my man. I don’t want  _ any _ of this.”

There was a window near the sofa, but this room was at least a couple stories up, so that was a non-starter. Vladimir’s eyes went back to the dresser and fell to the scissor blade lying on the floor and then to the armoire.  _ It will have to do. _

Vladimir walked back to the door and closed it as softly as he could, lest he alerts “Matty” and the non-complying one. He dipped by the dresser, picking up the blade, before walking over to the armoire. 

He pulled open the old clattering doors, opening them and crawling inside. His foot clipped the outside with a thud.

Vladimir cringed at the sound, not being able to afford any more mistakes. But he pushed the thought from his head, getting back to work. He pressed his hands against the sliding doors and closed them, encasing himself in darkness.

Vladimir took the scissor blade and brought it to his ankles, cutting away the rope, removing the bits of the chair still stuck to his legs. His breath was rattling in his chest like a faulty engine. He didn’t know if he’d be able to move when the time came.

The footsteps outside halted suddenly.

“Oh, I can’t believe I’m doing this. What do we do if he’s awake?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Matt said, opening the door. “I just want to make sure -”

“That he hasn’t escaped?” The other one exclaimed, pushing past. “Because  _ that _ , Matt, is one empty chair!”

Matt stepped forward, nearing the broken chair. He ran his hand over the carpet, the sound almost louder in Vladimir’s ears than his own heartbeat.

“Calm down, Foggy, I don’t think he’s gone.”

“Like that’s any better,” he huffed.

Vladimir gripped the scissors until his knuckles turned white. His heart was drumming in his throat.

“Where could he be anyway?” The other one, Foggy, said, pacing. “There’s nowhere to hide.”

Matt took a step towards the armoire and put his hand on the doors. They trembled under the weight; it was the loudest sound in the world to Vladimir. His legs began to cramp and his throat tighten. Sharp static filled his brain.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Foggy said. “Ha, nope. That- that right there is a  _ bad _ idea. You know we could just leave the crazy Russian man alone, right, Matty? We could just leave.”

Matt laughed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

The air seemed to thicken with Foggy’s sighs and Vladimir’s nervous energy. Matt walked closed and placed a hand on the doors, which rattled slightly.

Vladimir tried to still himself; he readied himself and balanced on his knee. Sweat messed with his grip on the handle, his hands vibed and fluttered. The doors slid back, showing the masked face. 

A second of true silence passed: the world stopped, the air suffocating, the color of the wallpaper painfully vibrant. Vladimir could see every individual hair of Matt’s beard, could hear Foggy pacing in place. Then it all sped up, no more than a blurring aura.

Vladimir lunged, teeth grit so hard it hurt.

A scream pierced the air as Matt tumbled back. He hit the carpet, the air leaving his lungs. Vladimir raised the blade to Matt’s throat and growled with an open mouth, tension released.

Matt stilled and the room around Vladimir spun, flashing before his eyes; only the blade stayed in its place, yearning for an end. Matt raised his hands above his head, caution deepening the lines of his face.

Someone said something somewhere, but in this moment words were unnecessary. Blood hummed in Vladimir’s veins, charged by the uncertainty of every single action that led him here. He thought to slit the man’s throat, to be done with it. But where would he get his answers from then?

Vladimir composed himself, hushing the fire inside of him. He gripped the handle tighter, willing away his shaky hands. He pressed his bandaged hand against Matt’s collarbone to hold himself up. His mouth was dry, his cadence wobbly. “What do you want?”

Matt’s body tensed up at the words, shifting slightly under Vladimir’s weight. “Information,” he said, voice even and stupidly unafraid. “I’m looking for a man named Wilson Fisk.”

“You’d be lucky to say name like that and live,” Vladimir said, remembering the people he didn’t want to end up like. “What use you have for it?”

“I want to stop him.”

Vladimir chortled wildly, fatigue traveling along the round of his skull. “Like you want to stop all other bad men, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Bad guys like you, like Fisk.”

Empty images fluttered behind Vladimir’s eyes: falling snow, gray stone, red carpet. His breath slithered through his teeth.  _ Плохой. Зло. Мерзкий. [Bad. Evil. Vile.]  _

The ash-colored carpet glowed and bowed, crushed and crushing. 

He calmed, shoulders slumping. “Other people know Fisk,” Vladimir offered with a shrug that almost knocked himself over. “Go beat them instead; you don’t need me.”

“You’re my easiest option.”

“Uh, no,” Foggy interrupted. “He is the least easy way to go about this; not that we, or you, should be doing this in the first place. Your current situation is proof of it.”

Vladimir’s fingers twitched, fluttering against Matt’s collarbone. “He is smart, your friend. Perhaps you should listen to him.”

The air filled painfully with silence, the two friends mentally warring with each other. Foggy rolled on the tips of his feet and fiddled with his hands, not knowing what to do. Matt turned his head to the side and looked at Foggy.

“Not that I want to agree with the criminal,” Foggy said, words teetering on the edge of his tongue, “but please listen to me for once. This is a bad idea. I mean you kidnapped a man for information to follow a  _ hunch _ of yours, dragging me by the feet the whole time too.”

A sigh left Matt’s mouth and sent chills up Vladimir’s spine. _убить его._ _Kill him now!_ In shudders Vladimir breathed, waiting for Matt to respond. His fingers drummed against the handle. _So close. So close._

Matt brought his hands to lay over top of his mask, tempting Vladimir to press the blade deeper. 

“You’re not a criminal, alright? This won’t come back to bite you.” Matt moved his hands away, bringing them to his sides. “But you, Fisk, need to be dealt with.”

“Might not want to say that to person close to killing you, but sure.” Vladimir drummed his free fingers on Matt’s chest. “Besides,” he said, tilting the blade, “you are criminal yourself, no?”

A deep scowl crossed Matt’s face, suddenly all calmness releasing in tsunami force waves. Matt brought up his arm to cuff Vladimir’s head. 

Vladimir raised the blade to his arm, tearing the fabric of his shirt. Blood ran from the wound in long lines that wound down his arm.

Matt let out a soft cry and tucked his arm against his chest.

_ Это было бы легко, это было бы быстро. It would be easy, it would be quick. _

“You want to try that again?” Vladimir teased, pressing the tip of the scissors along the hollow of his throat. His ears were ringing.

A hand touched Vladimir’s shoulder; he flinched under the touch and turned his blade on him. Foggy raised a hand in defense, keeping the other one fire on Vladimir’s shoulder.

His pulse raced and his head ached; the sweat in his mouth tasted sour. He could feel the crazy look in his eyes; he carried little doubt that the other man could see it.

Vladimir’s hand shook, the plastic handle slipping against his wet palm. Foggy reached forwards with his open hand and clasped Vladimir’s. Slowly removing the weapon.

All instinct told him to reach for the scissors, to stab the man in front of him. But he was so  _ tired. _ His arms felt heavy and his throat was dry. Vladimir thought of his brother, of Moscow, of the garage.  _ Home. _

“I want to leave,” he said, his form raw with pain and tumultuous sleep.

Foggy nodded. “Me too.”

Using Foggy’s hand as leverage, Vladimir pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled when he stood up, sick all over. He started to walk towards the door. Towards Tolya.  _ He must be worried. _

A hand wrapped around his ankle, fingers digging into his jeans. “I can’t let you leave.”

“Matt,” Foggy groaned, letting the name slip. “This is good for no one.  _ Leave it be. _ ”

Matt hauled himself up into a sitting position and grabbed the other leg with his injured arm. “Please, something.” 

Vladimir lifted his leg, pulling it from Matt’s grasp and stepped down on his arm. Matt reeled and hissed through his teeth.

Vladimir turned to look at the masked man, blood soaking his shirt, dotted in bruises from their previous fight, the slight indent in his neck. His blue eyes turned cold. “You promise me this: you will  _ not _ come after my people, you will  _ not  _ come after me,” Vladimir said, voice shaky, almost spilling over to anger. “Can you keep to that?”

Matt stood up, joints cracking. He looked Vladimir head on, or as best as he could through that ridiculous mask, and thought for a few seconds before nodding.

Vladimir took a step closer and looked Matt up and down. Panic raced through his mind. “Say it.”

“Yes, I promise.” The words came out dry and strained.

Vladimir brought a shaking hand up to Matt’s throat and pressed his thumb against his pulse, feeling for some irregularity. Foggy tensed beside him, ready to jump if he started to choke him out. Not feeling anything unusual he pulled his hand back crossed his arms.

“Fisk has been buying up land, old tenements mostly. Some plan he’s got with the Japanese, I think.”

“Is that all?”

Foggy coughed loudly and hit Matt on the arm. “Thank you, uh -”

“Vladimir.”

Foggy nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Vladimir.”

Matt shrugged and folded his arms. “Yeah, thanks.”

Vladimir turned and opened the door, not sparing the two men a passing glance before walking down the rickety stairs. His mind was racing and before he knew it his feet were following suit, flying down the stairs as fast as his worn body would let them.

The doors at the bottom of the building opened to a lit street. Vladimir stiffened at the lights, his eyes burning. He continued running and ducked into the nearest alleyway. 

Eventually, he stopped to catch his breath, holding himself up with his hands on his knees.  Daybreak had begun to gradually leak into the night, splintering the starless sky. A voiceless cry forced itself from Vladimir’s throat and shame flooded his blood. He’d let the pain get to him, let himself panic.

His saw the lines of gray apartment complexes and bloody carpet, the falling snow. He saw his friend’s face, cheeks all ruddy and hair damp, hands freshly tainted. Vladimir remembered looking down at the carpet, slowly becoming damp with blood, then seeing the tears in his friend’s eyes.

He had done horrible things to protect the people he cared about. Why did he lose his cool when he and his brother’s business was facing turbulence? Why did that masked man want Fisk? Why did he decide it would be through Vladimir he would go?

His mind filled with all sorts of dreadful things too complex to make sense of at the moment. But he did know two things: he needed to get home to Anatoly and he had a new enemy standing in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowkey didn't mean to get all emotional towards the end, but sad music has its ways


	3. With Shaky Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All I know is pain; I'm so sorry.

The fax machine buzzed and whirred, twisting and turning in its agitated slumber. The shutters were turned and the curtains drawn; the front desk was bare; Karen had left some hours ago, having finished her work.

Matt and Foggy entered, the door creaked on both the open and close swing. Foggy ran his hands through his hair, then let his arms hang fruitlessly.

“You’re mad at me,” Matt said, starting to peel off his gloves.

“I’m mad at you?” Foggy asked. He strolled over to the middle desk and brushed his hands along the edge, fingertips collecting dust. “I’m  _ scared _ for you.” He sighed. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Matt walked over to Foggy and set his gloves on the desk, then removed his mask, rolling it between his hands. “You remember the Healy case?” He started off slowly, pushing his way towards an explanation.

“Yeah,” Foggy said, “he smashed a guy’s head in with a bowling ball. Think I’d remember that.”

Matt clicked his tongue and laughed airily. “Yeah, that one.” The sound of metal ripping through flesh flashed through his mind. Matt stopped smiling. “I, uh- I went to talk with him afterward. I thought something was off.”

“Everything was off about that case,” Foggy said, turning to face Matt. “I mean was it Healy, the man, or the money?”

Matt crossed his arms, tapping his fingers on his elbows. “The man first. It was just so weird; and then, with how Healy acted. I figured there was something to it, and, fortunately, I was right.” Matt laughed and placed his hands on his hips. “Unfortunately, it’s a complete fucking mess.”

“This leading to the guy you beat up?”

Matt nodded. “Healy gave me a name: Wilson Fisk. I followed it a little on my own; there wasn’t really anything about Fisk in particular. Not for the public to see anyway. But, in the air, I heard mentions of him, little whispers. It all led to the gangs: the Russians, Triads, Yakuza.”

“And that guy?”

“Vladimir Ranskahov. He’s a high ranking member of the local branch of the mafia. I was originally following the Chinese - something about heroin - and that lead to the Russians.”

“What have they got to do with each other - the Russians and the Chinese? Didn’t Vladimir mention something about the Japanese?”

Matt nodded. “Like I said: a mess.”

Foggy moved around the desk and sat in the chair. He put his elbows on the desk and his head in his head. “And you brought me along because I was supposed to move some unconscious man that you terrorized.”

Matt shifted on his feet. “Don’t know if I’d use the word ‘terrorized.’ He put a pretty good fight. And besides, he wouldn’t talk without some struggle.”

Foggy leaned back in his chair and laughed, spinning around. “A complete fucking mess.” He tapped his feet slowly on the ground. He sighed and lowered his head. “And you dragged us all in.”

Matt sighed, words leaving him. He shook his head. “Us all?”

“Yes, us all,” Foggy confirmed. “Me, you, any criminal forces you may have stepped in the way of. I don’t think you’ve ever done something so reckless or so stupid.” A deep chuckle pulled itself from Foggy’s lips and cut through Matt.

Matt opened and closed his mouth, pressing his lips together in a tight line. He stood there in the silence waiting for anything. The sound of the churning air behind the desk was driving him mad.

Foggy continued to turn in his chair, feet peddling his thoughts along; he hummed in time with the fax machine. He turned towards Matt, looked at him and sighed, shaking his head.

“What?”

Foggy smiled. “Go. Go off and be a hero, or whatever. Because if you don’t leave now I won’t let you.”

Matt chuckled and picked up his gloves and mask. “Thanks.” He put them on, smiling like an idiot. A new energy filled him, replacing the pain Vladimir had caused him.

“Yeah, yeah, go,” Foggy groaned playfully. “As long as you don’t get yourself killed.”

Matt gave a laugh in return and ran out the door and into the world.

 

The world was full of all sorts of places: dives and alleys, homes and houses. The winding streets curved in between these places, dragging people into the shadows. Some people were able to pull themselves out, but others, like Matt, let themselves be pulled deeper. Much farther and he wouldn’t be able to leave; not as he came in at least.

Tonight Matt followed these roads, listening for anything that might give him more information. Now, the air was quiet except for the beeps of cars and shouts from distant rooftops. But Matt need not rely on the answers in the air tonight. Matt knew about the heroin and now knew that Gao controlled its distribution and that she had plans with the Russians.

Matt’s mind went back to the fight; he rubbed the cut on his arm. It had stopped bleeding on the way to the office but stilled burned enough to bother him.

A sudden wave of anxiety crashed over Matt as it had during the fight. All he could hear was Vladimir’s heartbeat, his staggered, ragged breathing. He had sounded more like an animal than a man. Matt carried no doubt that if Foggy had not of been there, he would be bleeding out on that dirty carpet.

Matt had always had a hard time believing that anyone could kill, but then he saw it. He could feel the blood and rain under his hands, hear the sirens. His mind began to race, his breath was hitching.

Then he remembered everything else he had come across: all the beatings that went too far, the skilled gunshots, the messy ones. Matt thought Vladimir capable of all these things and the thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Matt ignored his aching lungs and picked up the pace, trying to clear his head.

_ In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

He ran faster, feet hardly touching the ground.  _ Perhaps I should’ve stayed with Foggy.  _ He laughed as soon as the thought came and slowed down, hands on his knees. Through his laughs, Matt uttered a soft apology to Foggy and told him he was right. He began walking again once he’d caught his breath.

Eventually, Matt approached a tenement building he had scoped out with previous reconnaissance. He had heard the building was rife with junkies; he thought he could follow the drugs back to Gao. He didn’t know what he’d do once he found her, but he intended to do something.

Matt walked around the back if the building, reaching a door that opened into a service staircase. He opened the door and quickly ascended the stairs, the metal rail creaking under his hand. Matt cringed at the sound.

As Matt reached the second floor and paused, listening. People talked beyond the walls, slept, fought. Matt stalked down the hallway, lifting his feet silently and setting them down with less than a whisper.

Then, a shout; a banging fist on a closed door: the sounds of a struggle.

On the other side of the hallway, footsteps raced up the stairs, then stopped, stilling, before turning around and heading back down the stairs.

Matt’s head turned from the stairs to the door to the stairs again. The sound of the feet against the steps reverberated in his ears. He shook his head and turned to the door, heading to open it. He hand grasped the knob and turned; the door opened outwards.

A man in dirty clothes fell out of the apartment, landing face first onto the floor. A woman wielding a frying pan stood over him, panting with heated features. The woman fiercely turned to face Matt. She looked him up and down. “Que? You come to rob me too?”

Matt stuttered and stepped back, hands held up in a defensive stance. He shook his head fervently, pleading eyelessly. 

The man on the floor began to army crawl away, gasping in pain. The woman looked down at him and sighed, lowering her weapon. The woman stepped back into her apartment and let her assailant escape. She watched as he got up and ran down the hall, not turning back to look at her.

Matt heard the man run away and turned to face his wake. The woman placed a hand on his shoulder; taken aback, Matt whipped around to face her.

“Let him be; wish him well.” She nodded and leaned against the door frame.

The scent of blood hit Matt like a tidal wave, pushing him away. Matt regained his sense and went to hold the woman, seizing her by the arm. “You’re bleeding.”

The woman shook her head. “No. Is no problem. I take care of it.” She moved away from the doorframe only to stumble in her steps back inside.

Matt reached out and steadied her. The woman shook her head and gently pushed Matt away. She continued to walk back into her apartment. Matt backed away and let her go; an uneasy feeling grew in his stomach.

The sounds of footsteps hurried up the stairs. Their disembodied, worried voices traveled past them. Recognizing them as civilians, Matt took off his mask and shoved it into his pocket.

The people came up the stairs, one of them being the one from before. They crouched back, grabbing the railing with shaking hands. The other walked briskly towards Matt. “Is she in there?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes,” Matt answered. “She’s bleeding; wouldn’t let me do anything about it.”

The woman shook her head and breathed something between a laugh and a sigh. “Not surprised. Not one for debts.” She walked over the door and knocked, then placed her hand on the doorknob. “Elena, open up. It’s Claire.”

The person in the stairwell moved from foot to foot, thinking, before leaving once more.

On the other side of the door, the handle creaked. The woman poked her head into the crack between the door and the frame. “Claire?”

“Yes. It’s good to see you’re alright. Santino said he heard something.” Claire said, hand still on the doorknob so she could keep the door open if Elena decided to leave and bleed out in her apartment.

“Oh, sí,” said Elena, “un pequeño problema. Pero nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Claire looked over at Matt before looking back at Elena. “Estás bien? En serio?

Elena breathed a deep sigh and shook her head. She opened the door the rest of the way and Claire let her, removing her hand. “Maybe I do need a little help.”

Matt turned to leave, but Claire quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him. 

“I need your help.”

Before Matt knew it, he was dragged into the small apartment by the wrist. Claire only stopped tugging to close the door behind them. Elena walked through the living room towards the kitchen and threw a blood-soaked towel onto the counter. She turned around and gave Claire a weak smile.

Matt could hear her heart beat vehemently, fervently begging. He smelt the blood in the air. His own heart began pulsing wildly, fear commencing to claw its way through his veins, the unknown taking hold. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

HIs body began to hurt, but Matt couldn’t pinpoint the reason. The air fled his lungs in heavy stretches; the cut on his arm began to burn. Matt’s throat started to close and seize; he lifted his hands to the indent left by the scissor blade. 

A sudden urge to sleep flooded his mind.

Time began to stutter; Claire was moving, Matt stood still, people were talking over each other, quickly, blazing past Matt’s ears. And everything was burning, red and angry. All too fast, all too much. Matt could do nothing but stand there, let the stimulation suffocate him.

Someone grabbed his arm, pulled him over to a couch, put a rag in his hand, pressed his hand to an arm. The door opened; Matt flinched but held the rag in place. A new person was speaking, quiet, less than a whisper.  _ Was _ i _ t the person in the stairwell?  _

A rattle filled the air and stung Matt’s ears. Claire rushed over to him and told him to scoot over. Matt hesitated, not knowing where he was and where to move to. He was lightly shoved to the floor, but he still held the rag in place because that’s the only thing he could do, so he did it.

He heard the rattle again, the clicks of a box being opened, hands desperately searching with a certain skill. Hands pushed his hand away and he let it happen, losing his place in the room. Matt brought the rag close to his chest, hands shaking.

_ In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

Without a reference point, everything began sliding away, leaving him a lonely boat in a wide, neverending sea. And so, he drifted, waiting for time to go on its way. At some point, the rag, his lifeline, was taken from his hands. He let it happen, the waves knocking against the hull. 

Then, past his eyes, in the depths of his mind, it began to rain as it had on the street, thundering against concrete. He could hear the call of sirens past the storm, waiting, watching, wanting.

_ In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

Matt saw his hands, once wary, now steady, stitching close a wound. Felt liquor burn on his tongue and deep in his stomach. Watched his world catch fire, flare, and fizzle, smoke leaking out of the remains.

_ In through the nose, out through the mouth. _

Matt doesn’t know how long he sat there on the floor, but he started when someone rested their hand on his shoulder. Fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt; fearfully glancing side to side, Matt caught an outline in the fire.

“Hey, are you in there?” Claire asked kneeling down next to him.

Flexing his hands thoughtfully, Matt kept quiet, trying to calm his mind.  “Where am I?” The words came out choked, his mouth dry.

She was saying something, but Matt couldn’t hear her. A sudden and powerful ache rumbled through his body, bending him double. Claire wrapped an arm around his shoulder. He heard her voice once more before the fire died.

 

Vladimir awoke with a start, snow flashing behind his eyes. His startled hands pushed the papers on his desk away, sending the metal pencil jar to the floor with a clatter. The noise shot fear into his veins, throwing his eyes open wider despite them being heavy with sleep and pain.

His head was throbbing, his vision distorted, hot breaths choked his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. Vladimir trembled violently but forced himself to close his eyes and lay his cheek against the cold wood of the desk, trying his even his breathing as Petya taught him.

Vladimir dug his nails into the wood of the desk, leaving heavy indents in the soft oak. All sides of his head were pulsing wildly, wound and migraine in full swing. His right hand haphazardly moved along the distance of the desk, weakly grabbing the knob of one of the drawers to the best of its ability.

He shakily pulled the drawer open and fished for one of the bottles inside. Vladimir grabbed one and brought it in front of his face, only opening his eyes long enough to read the label. Thinking it good enough, he blindly twisted the cap off and poured the pills into his hands.

Раз, два, три, четыре _ ,  _ he counted, letting the extra roll onto the desk. Vladimir opened his mouth and angled his head so the pills would go down with spit, having run out of water hours beforehand. 

He set down the bottle with the wavering, yet ever frequent uncertainty that comes with pain. A remarkable revulsion at himself stained his mind but didn’t stop his yearning for company.

When Vladimir had arrived at the garage, agitated and out of breath, Anatoly was not there. In fact, no one had known where exactly he had gone; not even Serafima, who watched over the rest of the gang like an ill-humored hawk. 

Serafima had settled down on the couch next to the table where they played poker, scrolling through her phone, running her fingers through Nadya’s hair. Semyon and Pyotr were sitting at the table gently talking politics over beer, enjoying their aligning views.

Vladimir remembered the way they had all looked at him when he walked in; fear in his eyes, derangement in his stance. All he had managed to say was his brother’s name before Nadya was up and dragging him over to the couch. She held his hand and listened to him spout nonsense about men dressed in black and bloody snow until Serafima came at him with a wet washcloth.

Her hands expressed a certain skill as they wiped the dried blood from his face, but her tongue murmured abuse and complaints. “How late it is,” she had said. “Where have you been? What have you done to yourself? Idiot, always getting yourself hurt.”

Nadya clicked her tongue and shook her head at her lover’s words, deciding to comfort Vladimir instead of berating him.

The next time Vladimir opened his eyes his head was resting of Nadya’s thighs and everyone else was sitting at the table talking in whispers. Vladimir had strained to listen but, alas, he couldn’t make out any of their conversation. 

He had locked eyes with Pyotr for an odd minute before letting himself go radio silent.

Oh, how he longed for someone to hold him! Once more feel the plumpness of Nadya’s thighs, Serafima’s touch, or his dear Petya’s arms embracing him as they had so long ago.

If Vladimir could imagine that he was holding his hand instead of digging his nails into his desk, perhaps he would feel better. Then his mind began to wander, wondering if Matt, the man dressed in black, had anyone that would be willing to hold him at night, soothe his pain when it forced him to helplessness.

Vladimir laughed as deeply as his pain would allow. He brought his left hand to the pill bottle, thumbing the edge mindlessly.  _ I hope he’s having a better night than me,  _ Vladimir thought before passing into an induced, uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long it's been. My life has been a constant oof for the past month and I finished this instead of doing stuff for school. Not like my school laptop is working anyway. On a better note, I'm was in a production of Macbeth that went well and I'm in the midst of writing War and Peace fanfic. So, things could be worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Woah, man, this is my first A03 fanfic. That's fucking wild and I'm hella excited. Also still figuring out the system, so, if by any chance something goes horribly wrong I'm sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
